Okay, I never wrote about how I was kicked out of the house and homeless for a couple hours.

I'm trying to clean my room. Get everything out of here that doesn't belong, so I can bring all my stuff from college up here. This room is so full of shit from my childhood, that there's no place for everything I really use anymore. My college became the place where I had all my stuff, and now it's all in the living room and dining room (which we don't even use anymore). So I need to clean out my room so I can put all that stuff up here.

Well, there are toys in here that I don't want to just throw out. Things from my childhood. I was asking my mom what I should do with them. She wouldn't answer me. She flat-out ignored me. We were up in my room, trying to move my bed. We couldn't move it, so she was just standing there, looking at all my stuff. I asked her a couple times what to do with them. She eventually just answered, "I don't know." So I started to get really stressed, because I can't clean my room if I have no where to put all this shit. So she started to call my psycho because I was stressed. So I got really mad at her. One, because she wouldn't answer me at all. Two, because she was calling me psycho. I flipped out on her.

I admit, it wasn't my best idea. I called her a fucking cunt, blah, blah, blah. Well, she responded by kicking me out of the house. My laptop was on my lap at this point (I wasn't doing anything because I was so pissed at both her and myself), so I threw it off me and stormed out of the house. She kicked me out as I was, wearing pajamas and no shoes. I didn't have a chance to grab my cell phone, so I was completely alone.

So I walked out to the woods, and sat under a tree for a couple hours. I don't know how long I was really out there. It felt like a while, but maybe it wasn't long at all. I don't know. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't walk to McKayla's looking like I did. (Disheveled hair and old pajamas.) So I just sat there. I couldn't even call anyone.

So I prayed to God, whoever or whatever that may be. (I don't really think there is a God. Just a weird force of fate that we like to pretend is a holy being who answers our prayers and protects us. In my experience, fate does not protect me, nor does it answer any prayers. It has been cruel and unfair. And, if there is a God, why do so many bad things happen? Where is that O Holy Father, eh? If he was really out to protect "all his children" down here, then why are so many children abused? Case in point.)

After whatever length of time I was out there, and after praying that some mystical being would help me through this if I promised to change, I went home. I knocked on the front door of my own home. My mom tried talking through the door, but as she learned, it's harder to hear through a solid-wood door than she expected.

So she opened the door, and as I tried to apologize, she walked right away. Whatever, I knew she was mad at me, so I didn't expect any different. At this point, I was trying to fully blame myself. She wouldn't listen to any apology I had, so I asked if I could get dressed so that I could leave. She asked where I'd go. I said I didn't know, but probably to McKayla's. She got frustrated and told me to just stay. Whatever, man, whatever.

So I grabbed my cell phone out of my purse and ran upstairs. I texted McKayla first thing. She was in dance, anyways, so going to her house wouldn't have done a thing for me.

So I just sat up in my room and cried. I'm psychotic, but I have a selfish bitch for a mother. It's a dangerous combination.

Things cooled down after a couple days. My dad still talked to me, but only when my mother wasn't present. But whatever.

But after things got better, they got worse again. We were sitting on the couch, probably about a week later, and she was talking about doing her nails. I asked if she'd do mine again, and she said no, 'cause I'd just rip them off again. (She did my nails the day before she kicked me out, and by that next day, two had fallen off because I was trying to move my bed. So when she kicked me out, I thought I'd be stuck with two nails missing, and I chewed off the other eight nails.) So I just quietly got mad at her, because it was ridiculous that she expected me to not rip my nails off after she kicked me out of the house. What, was I supposed to just go around with two missing nails?

So then I got up to get something to eat, and she asked me to bring her sub from lunch to her. She knew I was pissed at her, and she still expected favors? I fully hate that woman, and she expects me to love her and bend over backwards for her every command.

Well, I got her sub, but I dropped it on her lap. Well, she got all pissed at me and demanded I handed it to her nicely. Only making my bad mood worse. I admit, I shouldn't have treated her so piss-poor. But if you lived with this woman, you'd understand that it's just hard to really like, or even respect, her.

Well, that turned into a huge blow-out, and she said that if I wouldn't leave, she would. So she stormed up to her room. I just sat there for a few minutes, pissed at myself for blowing up at her like that.

But we cooled down after that, too.

And my dad expects me to just pretend like I like her. It's hard to do that. I really don't like her. Sometimes, I hate her. I don't hate my dad. I love my dad. I just get very mad at him, a lot. But I don't hate him.

I'm sorry, but I just do not like my mother, at all.

I need to get out of this place. That woman is psychotic.

I told her last night that I needed to take a shower before we went into town to take back the recyclables. It was midnight that she asked for my help, and she had just had a cigarette in the bathroom. So I told her that I needed to take a shower this morning before we left. She was okay with it.

This morning, she had a cigarette in the only bathroom with a usable shower. She knew, since last night, that I needed that shower this morning. So I told her I couldn't take a shower now because she just smoked in there. (Them smoking in the bathroom has been a problem for a very long time. They know I don't want black lungs, but they don't care.)

So she starts screaming at me that I had to go with her anyways, even though my hair is greasy and I needed a shower. She says that no one cares about me, and that I'm not there to please anyone, so I shouldn't care what I look like. Granted, no one does care, but still. Going into town with greasy hair is just scuzzy. And she, of all people, should know what appearances are about. She's all the time saying how she can't go to the Quickway because she's not dressed and her hair's not done. And she's going to criticize me because I won't do the same?

She's fucking psychotic. Now I'm confined to my room like a child, without food she said, because I wouldn't go into town with greasy hair. If she had just waited maybe an hour and a half, I would have gone with her. I don't mind doing the recyclables. And, it's her fault I couldn't take a shower.

This entire argument is purely her fault. She started screaming at me first, and I never once swore at her. For the records, I behaved rather well during this one. She's the one who was swearing at me, calling me a bitch, verbally harassing me.

But it's me. I'm the psychotic one.

I really need to get out of here. She's flipping out on me for absolutely nothing.

Maybe I should call my grandparents and ask to move in with them for the summer. I'll get a job. Help around the house. I just can't stay here. That woman who gave birth to me is fucking psychotic.

But yeah, it's all me. I'm the one who needs to see a psychiatrist and get back on Zoloft.

She needs some fucking lithium. And cyanide.

Am I depressed, bipolar, or psychotic? Am I really fucked up, or do I just think I am because I, somehow, want to be? Does that count for anything? Am I really destroying my mind with each passing day, or am I just a normal person with normal problems? Do I simply have a short temper with dangerous anger problems? Or is there something more going on, deep inside my mind? Am I purposefully destroying myself, from the inside out, because it's somehow exhilarating?

If I had health insurance, I'd know this. But when I turned nineteen, I got kicked off whatever I was on. Even though I'm a full-time college student. And now I can't get on Medicare because my household makes too much money. Even though we could never afford insurance on our own. This healthcare system is fucked up. And now I can't get the medical attention I need. I was on anti-depressants, so I needed to see my psychiatrist every three months. I also saw a social worker (when I wasn't at college). I also have a tube in my stomach that needs to be changed every three months. I had to go over half a year without changing it because I lost insurance. I finally found a charity program that allowed me to get it changed for free. But it got pretty fucked up, and I had stomach pains for a while. It's still a little messed up. But yeah. This healthcare thing is amazing. I'd have to move out of my house just to get insurance!

Well, maybe moving out isn't a bad idea. I hate my life here. I don't get along with my mother at all. My dad and I clash too often. My parents barely get along, too. Insanity runs in the family. (My dad's aunt, for example, spent time in a loony bin.) So does diabetes and alcoholism. Point is, three psychotic people living in the same household is a very unstable thing. Especially when one of us is depressed (maybe even my mother, too), and one of us might be bipolar (maybe even my father, too). Is there a such thing as a mild, non-life-threatening version of bipolar disorder?

But, whatever may be wrong with me, my parents need to know that it's not just me. While I may fly off the handle way too often, they need to realize that they push me off the edge more often than they'd like to admit. It's not just me. None of us in this house are mentally stable. But they push all the blame on me, because it's the easiest. And until they admit it's not all me, I won't admit it's me at all.

If only we had insurance. Then we all could get help. Individual counseling for each of us. Marriage counseling for them. Family counseling for all of us. But is there even anything worth saving or fixing here? Sometimes I think there's just too much wrong with us to even bother. Maybe the only solution is to get individual counseling while they get a divorce and I move out. I think that'd be easiest.

And it makes me cry to think that's the only solution.

Bored? Here are twenty questions I'd like to ask my readers...

1. What year were you born in?
2. What operating system and Internet browser are you using to view this page?
3. Can you touch your tongue to your nose?
4. Why are you answering these questions?
5. How many fingers do you have?
6. What color is the sky?
7. What do you think of the name "Cotton" for a male dog?
8. "Sometimes I lay under the moon and thank God I'm breathing." These are the lyrics to what song?
9. What is your favorite movie? Book?
10. Why do people fight?
11. Did you Google the lyrics in number eight to get the answer?
12. Have you ever played Call of Duty: Black Ops? Do you like it?
13. What's the moon made of?
14. When I say "ringtone" what's the first thing that comes to mind?
15. What do you say when it's cold out?
16. Who sings the song in number eight?
17. How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?
18. Which came first: the chicken or the egg?
19. Do you like the song from number eight? Or do you still not know what song it is?
20. Did you answer any of these questions seriously? Or did you put down silly answers?

I think I'm bipolar or something.

But it doesn't help that my parents are psychotic, too.